


Rebel Rebel

by Anarchisticaubergine



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: BAMF John Wick, Canon-Typical Violence, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parabellum Spoilers, Plot, Plot-heavy, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, post-parabellum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-20 18:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18997897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarchisticaubergine/pseuds/Anarchisticaubergine
Summary: John stared heavily at Amherst, “You have an informant at the Table?”Amherst nodded, “Working for them.”They maintained eye contact for several more seconds, before John replaced his gun in his jacket. He saw Amherst flinch at the sudden movement, the first sign of apprehension he had seen in the man yet.“I’ll need to get my dog.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just watched Parabellum yesterday and it was gr8, I needed to write something. poor John :(. I did my best for characterization, let me know if you think there's something I can change. Enjoy!  
> Rating will change

One week after the events at the Continental, John had already begun limping around the King’s headquarters. For anyone else, a week would have been an unthinkably short time to recover from the injuries he had sustained after Winston’s betrayal and his subsequent fall, but little short of death could keep him down for longer, including his frustrated medics.

Now, instead of lying on a shabby cot where he had been under constant observation for fear that whatever miracle had preserved him would undo itself and he would die from the ridiculous number of injuries inflicted on him, he had begun slinking around unseen, learning every shadow and crevice, watching the greatly reduced number of the King’s operatives come and go. This surveillance was conducted with extreme paranoia – every corner could have a mercenary behind it, every closet could contain a bomb.

Occasionally his dog would trail him during these precautionary jaunts, silent and glued to his heel. Other times, the dog was happy to be pampered by the King’s many informants, who unsurprisingly had a way with canines. Currently, John was alone, skulking around the generator room, his many weapons well in reach.

“Hey. John Wick,” came a soft whisper ahead of him, and his gun appeared in his hand instantly.

“Show yourself,” he demanded roughly, stepping backwards and trying to see through the shadows ahead. A man emerged from the shadows in front of him, his gloved hands raised. John pointed at him with the gun, “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked slowly, his gravelly voice scraping the air.

“I want to show you something, Mr. Wick,” the man replied softly. Now that he had stepped into the light, he looked no different than any of the King’s spies, shabby, wearing worn clothes and fingerless gloves with a long beard. His calm blue eyes stared levelly at John from beneath his wild salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He was likely in his fifties, but long grey hair made him appear older, less threatening. He was wiry, probably fast, and carrying no visible weapons but what could be hidden in his baggy clothes. He was favouring his left leg slightly where a small handgun or knife could be concealed.

His approach should be setting off alarm bells in John’s head – this was a man who blended in with the hundreds of others in the building, who apparently knew that John patrolled this way, looking to get him alone. However, he hardly felt any of the suspicion that he should, and internally examined why.

The man could have simply attempted to shoot or stab him from his cover, instead of making his presence known. Of course, this would carry with it a certain risk, as John was always on guard while he patrolled and had recently upgraded his bulletproof clothing, but was still the obvious choice in a hit. Allowing John to see him and prepare for an attack, giving up an assassin’s best friend – the element of surprise – felt strange, even if he had set a trap ahead. Besides, the odds that John would follow into such an obvious set up would probably seem very low to the lofty Table.

But being bedridden for a week recovering from numerous painful injuries had given John the dangerous itch to get out and do _anything_ other than lurk the dank halls of the King’s hideout, despite his strong urge for self-preservation. He prompted the man to answer his previous questions by thumbing back the hammer of his pistol, meeting his eyes expressionlessly. The man nodded, “I am Leroy. I work for another party that opposes the High Table. They have information that you might consider... pertinent.”

“Why not bring it to the Bowery King,” John inquired roughly, gun aimed. He knew he should be calling for help, or better yet disabling the spy himself, but his curiousity rebelled and he remained still. At the same time, he was scanning, sussing out potential weak points and minute changes in expression and posture, where he could strike, places for cover. Despite what those who faced him since his return had claimed, he had neither gone soft nor old. And besides, those people weren’t claiming much of anything anymore.

Leroy answered exactly as John thought he would, “It concerns the King.”

John inclined his head barely and changed his expression so he would appear expectant. Of course, Leroy was not forthcoming. “The walls have ears. And eyes,” he explained, his own eyes inadvertently darting to the right. John had the opportunity to attack, but still he didn’t. If Leroy was here to kill him, the Table would of course send more assassins, and perhaps it was best to let them see their initial plan through, for reconnaissance. Well, almost through.

As he made these justifications for his own recklessness, he asked Leroy where he wished to go instead. In response, Leroy reached under one of the generators, and pushed something hidden beneath it. A creaking sounded as a hidden door swung open _. Amateur mistake,_ John thought. _Always oil the hinges of concealed entrances._

He leaned right to peer over Leroy’s shoulder into the dark passage awaiting, keeping his gun pointed straight. After a second of consideration, he motioned again with the gun for Leroy to lead the way, and they began to enter the tunnel, lit like a mine shaft with dim electric bulbs. John still had his gun up and pointed at the back of Leroy’s head, a very strange power dynamic for an assassin to allow, unless it was all a ploy to make John comfortable. To an outsider, it would look like he was holding Leroy hostage.

Still he kept his head on a swivel, eyes probing the shadows and ears pricked for the quietest footfall. The skittering feet of a rat made him whirl around, and he nearly put a bullet through the unsuspecting creature. Leroy said nothing, and neither did he.

 

They walked for probably half an hour before coming to a second door – John listened intently, and some kind of low, pleasant music was coming from behind it. It swung open when Leroy discreetly stood on a pressure pad, John’s eyes tracking and memorizing the location. Behind the door was a large circular chamber, tiled and sweet smelling. There were water features, statues, and lounge chairs arranged across the floor. It appeared to be… a spa.

 “Hello, Mr. Wick,” came a man’s voice from directly behind him. John immediately spun and went low, sweeping the man’s legs from under him with a kick and pinning him with a knee across his chest. His combat knife, retrieved from his boot, rested across the man’s jugular.

John found himself staring down wide, serious brown eyes without a speck of fear. The man’s hands rested flat, weaponless, above his head. He was tall, probably 6’4’’, with maintained light stubble and short, loose, dark blond curls. A few small, deep scars pockmarked his face, making him appear rougher than he likely preferred. He looked younger than he likely was – John estimated somewhere in his late thirties.

From what John could tell perched on top of him, his body was lean and strong. He wore a suit of middling appearance, but John could feel the Kevlar lining sewn in and knew it was far more expensive than it looked. He was athletic, knew combat and probably played a sport that required cardio, like soccer. He was utterly still, but not tense underneath John, making no attempt to struggle or position himself to throw him or go for a weapon.

John stared at him discerningly, angling his head and leaning in slightly, his knee pressing the man into the tile floor. “Who are you?” he forced out in his strange, affected manner.

“My name is Wyatt Amherst,” the man replied, speaking calmly and slowly, his voice deeper than expected, like one might do to a scared animal. “It’s nice to meet you, John,” he said without a trace of sarcasm. John was aware of Leroy moving towards him slowly, gun drawn. Amherst tracked the way his weight shifted, preparing to incapacitate his spy, and his hand shot out and gripped John’s knife hand.

“Please don’t gut my employee,” Amherst murmured softly, then louder, “Leroy, put it away and back off. I’m fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Amherst?”

“For your sake, Leroy, yes,” he responded, his tone amused but his face not showing it as he gazed levelly back at John. For John’s part, he hadn’t moved since Amherst had seized his wrist, and he wasn’t totally sure why. He knew appearances were misleading, but he didn’t feel threatened here, and he had an unusual interest in why this man wanted him. Acting on instinct, he retracted his knife and stood, letting Amherst get up himself.

“Who are you?” he ground out with the same intensity, again holding his P30L with one eye on Leroy, who had put his gun away and was attempting to fade into the background. All the while, the same gentle, new age music was echoing through the room, accompanied by the gushing of small waterfalls.

“I run this spa and shelter. I serve those in the business who don’t conform to the High Table and work to see them abolished,” Amherst replied evenly.

“Why?”

“I don’t like people above their own rules.”

Vague. It was likely something more personal than that, John thought. Someone the High Table had let off with a crime against a loved one, a kid, or sibling… or wife. He stepped forward, squinting at Amherst,

“Why are you not dead?”

“I have a network of spies, much like the Bowery King. Whatever reward the High Table would give for ratting us out would be hard to spend dead. I’m selective about my clientele, and my security and defences are above par. We’ve been sold out twice, and both times we got word and made it to our alternate locations before the Table found us. Those who turned on us met an unpleasant end.”

“What do you want with me?” asked John, impatient and critical.

Amherst replied, spreading his hands, “You by yourself are more effective than any security team I could hire. The Table will be on the alert for any insurgency, and it’s time I upgrade my insurance policy,” he gestured at John.

His own motives first. Good. Now, “Why would I work for you.”

“Leroy told we had intel on the Bowery King,”

A statement, not a question. John inclined his head in the affirmative, slightly sarcastic. “Within the next week, the High Table will approach him with an offer of clemency,” Sensing John’s unwillingness to continue prompting, Amherst continued, “Given what happened last time they made that offer to an ally of yours, how willing are you to bet he won’t sell you out in an instant? And if he does succeed in taking power, you are a liability and a loose end.”

“Do you have proof of the offer?” John’s tone was more invested as his mind replayed the King’s words after his fall.  _‘I would have done the same’._

Amherst took a dictaphone out of his jacket pocket and clicked the replay, _“I believe the ‘Bowery King’ is sheltering Wick,”_ came a female voice with a heavy Indian accent.

It sounded like… John’s eyes widened a fraction as he recognized Gayatri Chowdhury, daughter of Yashwant Chowdhury. He had taken a job from her father, a huge crime lord in India, a decade ago, when Gayatri was only a teen. She had been polite and subdued then, serving him and her father food and saying little, but she had been listening intently. Obviously, it had paid off.  

The tape continued, echoing against the curved tile walls, _“How do you suggest we proceed?”_ A male voice this time, nasal.

“ _Simple. Make an offer. Forgiveness and power in exchange for Wick,”_ Gayatri continued. _“His manager friend turned on him. Why not this man?”_

There was a moment of silence on the tape, then her motion was put to a vote. Twelve _ayes_ , and the motion was sealed. John stared heavily at Amherst, “You have an informant at the Table?”

Amherst nodded, “Working for them.”

They maintained eye contact for several more seconds, before John replaced his gun in his jacket. He saw Amherst flinch at the sudden movement, the first sign of apprehension he had seen in the man yet.

“I’ll need to get my dog.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, John Wick desperately needs a spa day, and if the movies won't provide, I will


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a bath, and explores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Keanu Reeves is technically 54,,, but since he's ageless, for this fic John is 39.

John Wick let out a quiet groan as he sank into the steaming, scented water of the huge tub, his sore muscles crying out in relief. His dark hair clung to his face in strands and his skin was flushed from the heat. Amherst had given him a room that was vaguely Japanese, with paper walls and bamboo floors, but without a floor mattress. Instead, there was a queen size bed with a mahogany frame, large en suite, walk-in closet, and best of all, a Jacuzzi.

John wasn’t exactly picky about his surroundings as long as they weren’t a pine box, but he had lived with money and could admit the vast improvement between the Bowery King’s pigeon-laden HQ and this luxury spa. At first, he had been constantly vigilant of the other denizens of the spa looking to claim his bounty, but Amherst had assured him Continental rules applied, and there was no violence permitted within his establishment. Those who violated this would suffer consequences.

After three days and no attempts on his life, John was slightly less wary. He had seen a few mercenaries he’d known, who had nodded to him or exchanged minor pleasantries, but no one was eager to get a drink with someone with such a large target on his back. Meanwhile, he’d kept occupied at the shooting range, and to a lesser extent, practicing hand-to-hand. His injuries were still substantial enough to keep him from training at full capacity, but he’d be damned if he was going to stagnate.  

As he soaked, the dog lay curled on the end of the bed, twitching in his sleep. Leroy had retrieved him from John’s former residence at the Bowery King’s hideout shortly after he had agreed to Amherst’s terms. As he watched, the dog’s ears perked up, and within seconds he was awake and standing in front of the sliding door to John’s room, signaling a visitor.

John stood, climbing out of the tub and wrapping a towel around his waist. He tucked a knife into the towel, sent the dog back to his previous position, and slid open the paper door to find Amherst waiting.

“John,” he said in greeting, “Have your wounds been bothering you?”

One thing John was learning about his new host was he was very upfront; he always spoke what was on his mind. He could appreciate that quality in an industry where every sentence was dripping with innuendo and double meanings. Its why John chose to say little at all.

“I’m fine.”

Amherst nodded, his eyes tracking a rivulet of water dripping from John’s hair down his chest. “Well, I brought in a specialist to help you feel up to task. I believe you two are acquainted.”

He stepped aside to reveal the familiar face of an older Chinese man, who grinned up at John.

"Doc,” John nodded his head respectfully, slightly awkward, but earnest and genuinely pleased to see the man. After those who had helped him previously had been ‘adjudicated’, he had wondered what had become of the good doctor, despite the… _precautions_ they had taken on their last meeting. He was glad to see him alive and mostly unharmed.

The doctor hobbled into John’s room, carrying his medical bag, and demanded he “Sit down, sit down,” ushering John onto the edge of his bed. He proceeded with a physical exam as John sat in his towel, the dog sniffing him then licking droplets off his back. Amherst had vanished, leaving the door closed behind him.

“- You’re alright?” John asked lowly, his gruff voice breaking the silence.

Doc batted away his concerns like an errant fly as he put gentle pressure on John’s bruised ribs. “I’m totally fine. You are an excellent shot, to no one’s surprise. Now, tell me when this hurts.”

He began to push gently on his torso, until John’s face was lined with tension and his breath was coming short and shallow. The doctor glanced up at his patient and immediately ceased the pressure when he saw John’s expression.

“Mr. Wick, I asked you to tell me when it hurt,” he reiterated, exasperation tingeing his voice.

John took a second to catch his breath, then shrugged.

The older man shook his head and muttered something about how guilty assassins made the worst patients, before retrieving some salves, antibacterial creams, and a sewing needle from his case. He proceeded to check the progress on his GSW’s and stab wounds, deeming it fit to remove the crude stitches one of the King’s men had performed, replacing it with his own neat handiwork and a gauze pad.

The Doc prescribed him some painkillers, and a recommendation to avoid being shot, stabbed, punched, or otherwise for at least two weeks. Training was fine as long as he took it easy, as was light, non-strenuous sex.

At the last part an amused almost-smile flickered across John’s face, and he thanked the doctor, who got up to leave.

“Wait,” John stopped him, his expression serious. “Are you- involved in this High Table shit?”

“Rules are rules, John,” the old man stated teasingly, an enigmatic smile resting across his face. “They were made to be broken.”

And with that, he left John’s room, leaving him alone with his dog.

 

After some brief investigating, John had found there were two layers to the spa. The top was pleasant enough but basic, where ordinary people could come for a steam and massage. Below it were two concealed floors containing vast and numerous rooms and chambers, dormitories like John’s, training rooms with rubber knives and punching bags, a shooting range with an accessible armory managed by a formidable woman named Janice, and many areas where actual spa treatments were to be found.

The guests of this level arrived from various entrances, concealed elevators and tunnels. A wide network of these tunnels must have connected many parts of the city to the spa, but where they led, he was unsure.

It was strange to see so many dangerous people walking around in comfy robes and slippers. So was the sheer amount of clientele. John had been out of the game for some time, but he wondered when the Table had amassed such an opposition. There had previously been a few failed attempts on the lives of various members, but he had never observed dissension on this scale before.

He wanted to know more about Wyatt Amherst. An internet dig revealed little. Most people in their line of work tended to avoid a web presence, as even misleading information could reveal something incriminating. He didn’t have his usual resources or contacts to help with his research, he certainly wasn’t going to walk up to any of the other mercenaries to inquire while the bounty still hung over his head, and the isolation was frustrating.

His mind wandered as he sat, cross-legged on the floor, absent-mindedly scratching the dog’s belly. His mind began to drift to thoughts of his old contacts, friends. _Fuck, Marcus…_ It was still painful for John, the people who had died so he could seek revenge. Not the guilty ones of course – he was eager to meet them again in hell – but those who had helped him. His friends. _They knew what they were getting into_ , he reminded himself, but it still stung that they were gone. The trail of destruction he had blazed had left many people dead in its wake, on his path from revenge to desperate, selfish self-preservation.

He cast his mind back and remembered how Marcus had helped him out when he was just a young prodigy, fresh out of the Director’s training and getting into the business of murder. He had almost been a father figure.

He shook his head out of bittersweet memories, rising gracefully in his workout clothes, a gray t-shirt and sweatpants. He ventured back down to a training room to engage in some light, non-strenuous exercise.

The gym was empty at 5:00 am, so he started with yoga, warming up his muscles to avoid further injury. He progressed slowly through a warm-up into some intermediate moves like crane pose, then plow pose, then into an advanced shoulder-pressing pose and firefly pose. He performed each movement thoroughly, until he could feel his body loosening and his mind clearing and sharpening.

When he had finished, John began laying waste to a punching bag, dodging and weaving around imaginary attacks as he pummeled the bag from all sides. He went until sweat soaked his shirt and his bangs covered his eyes, careful the entire time not to pull his stitches. He re-hydrated and began working through various martial arts moves solo, integrating Brazilian Jiu Jitsu with Judo and Krav Maga, his motions seamless and deadly.

Once he was exhausted, he returned to his room to change into a black long-sleeve and jeans, and collect his guns and knives. Slipping on boots, he headed down to the target range.

 

When he arrived, Janice was sitting behind her desk. She wordlessly handed over safety glasses and hearing protection, and examined his arsenal to ensure it was within their standards. Once she gave him the go-ahead with a thumbs-up, John thanked her quietly and passed through the heavy soundproof doors.

Behind them, there was only one figure firing off shots. Amherst stood in the middle lane, holding a 9mm Luger and firing off shots in quick succession. He finished his clip and held a button to bring his target in.

“Good morning, John,” Amherst spoke without turning his head. His tone was pleasant, but raised, to penetrate both of their ear protection. He took the target off of its rack and examined it as John approached. Three of the shots were disabling, the rest lethal. He replaced the target and let the motor carry it back out.

John took his stance in the next lane over, taking aim with his P30L and fired 15 shots in a handful of seconds, hitting first the forehead, then face, then chest of the silhouette. His mind fell blissfully blank as he emptied multiple guns into target after target, adjusting his holds and stances on instinct. John relaxed, and forgot all other sensation than the feeling of the pistol jumping in his hands repetitively, the familiar muffled sounds of bullets being ejected from the muzzle and casings clattering to the floor.

He barely noticed that Amherst had stopped shooting and was instead considering John as he fired again and again. He was holding the button to replace the target when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He removed an earphone, and his neck prickled as Amherst leaned in a little from behind, “Come eat with me tonight. We’ll discuss your new job.”

John nodded barely in the affirmative, and Amherst strode off. Once he was gone, John sighed a little. His new employer had the strangest way of getting under his skin in a strange that didn’t make him uncomfortable. It was disconcerting.

 

John spent another hour at the shooting range, then a shorter time practicing with throwing knives. The solid _ka-chunk_ of each blade hitting the target was immensely satisfying. After an hour, John left the range to take the dog out. He knew it was a dumb risk, but he hated to have anyone else in possession of his dog, and he enjoyed their walks.

He wore a polo, jeans, and a high collared jacket, tucked his hair under a baseball cap which was pulled low over his eyes, and finished his disguise with a scarf. Luckily, it was cold enough in New York to allow for his covering up without drawing attention from the people he was trying to avoid.

He called his dog by patting his leg, and the pit bull immediately came to heel at his side. They walked together to one of the elevators, perfectly in-step. It ascended silently into a ‘changing room’ in the upper spa, that was permanently locked for all of the regular customers. They proceeded forward, past the front desk and through the glass doors. The receptionist nodded at them as they passed.

John and his dog strode through the city, eventually arriving at a small park where the dog automatically detached itself from his heel and began sniffing around as he sat at a bench and watched silently. Ten minutes later, a woman dressed in rags, her hair matted, approached and sat beside him on the bench.

He angled his body towards her, and that’s when she struck, jabbing towards his kidney with a small blade. John saw it coming and caught her wrist, rotating until she was forced to drop the knife, and then past that. She stared at him with unusually dull eyes before he snapped her wrist and she howled in pain. He released her and stood, looking at the woman dispassionately.

“Give the King my regards,” John said drolly, false politeness colouring his voice. He whistled for his dog and they left quickly.

Behind his back, the woman yelled, “They’ll come for you! **_You got_ _no one on your side now,_ _Mr._ _Wick._ _”_**

He sped up in response, moving at a light jog and turning on the first street they came to. He detoured until he no longer felt the presence of eyes, and then took a route back to the spa. He entered and headed down immediately. He met Amherst where the elevator let out, who surveyed him, his expression worried.

“Are you hurt? Were you followed?” he asked urgently. John assumed his spies had informed him.

“No,” he replied hoarsely, reassuring Amherst, then releasing his dog with a nod. The dog trotted from his side, up the stairs to wait at his door. John straightened and tilted his chin to meet Amherst’s eyes. They held a look for a moment, John’s intense gaze meeting the other man’s concerned one.

Amherst nodded, “We can find someone to walk your dog,” he offered.

John’s eyes met his again, “-Yeah,” he agreed dryly. He began to go, then stopped and turned.

He leaned in slightly, “Bye,” he added awkwardly, then walked away to join his dog, his face lightly flushed. When he arrived back at his room, he let himself and the dog in, a took a moment to stare himself down in the mirror. His reflection stared back, unwavering. His hair hung in his eyes, and he brushed it away, making a note to find some hair ties.

He really should trim it. Helen had always reminded him to get it cut so his bangs wouldn’t hang in his face. John clung to that minor annoyance after her death and his return, a reminder of when not everything about him had to be practical and efficient, optimized for combat. He raked a hand through the hair and decided to leave it.

 

John’s thoughts were distracted a few hours later, so he decided to meditate, clear his mind. He sat Indian-style on the carpet and did some breathing exercises, the creases in his forehead smoothing as he willed himself to relax. This worked for a minute, but his mind wandered back to thoughts of Amherst. _How had he kept his existence a secret?_ _And the spa?_ John had thought the High Table had eyes everywhere. It certainly seemed that way. _Where did he come from?_

A silhouette appeared against his paper wall, and a knock came on the door frame, interrupting his musings. It was Leroy, Amherst’s assistant/bodyguard, and he’d come to remind John about dinner with his boss. Leroy gave him directions to one of the dining rooms, and told him to be there for 7:00 pm, in an hour.

This gave John a new dilemma; what should he wear? It had been a while since his last job interview, he reflected wryly. In the end, he dressed in black slacks and dress shirt with the collar undone, and a rich brown leather jacket. His hair fell around his face, and he scrubbed a hand over his chin. His beard was starting to get long and scratchy, so he trimmed it back and faced himself again. _Battle ready,_ he thought, considering his reflection.

A ridiculous feeling of nervousness washed over him suddenly. _It’s dinner. What are you afraid of?_ Considering recent events, it was insane to be losing his cool now. He took a deep breath, scratched his dog behind the ears and told him to stay, redundantly. John squared his shoulders, and headed out to meet Amherst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids: you can still be a violent badass even if you have feelings and trauma. I'm really glad people are enjoying this, thanks for the kudos and comments! I'll do my best to update regularly, but of course school has to get in the way. Disclaimer for this chapter: I am in no way a medical or firearm expert, most of this will be vague and inaccurate. I also don't know anything about yoga, besides the fact I very much want to see Keanu Reeves attempt some of these moves. Next chapter might be from Wyatt's perspective, I'm excited to explore his character.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyatt and John discuss business, and have a lamp-lit dinner. Wyatt POV for the first bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God John is so soft at the beginning of the first movie. Poor baby. Also, bam! 3 chapters in 2 days. I am on fire!

Wyatt Amherst waited patiently, his fingers drumming unconsciously at the table. Dinner with John Wick. He tapped out a nervous rhythm as he awaited the famed assassin, boogeyman, Baba Yaga. Since Wick had stayed at his spa, Wyatt had known him only as a quiet, serious man, who had an air of impermeable mystery surrounding him. He was obviously highly skilled; even if Wyatt hadn’t known the details of the man’s life and career, his grace and physique were apparent.

However deadly Wick was, he wasn’t what Wyatt had been expecting. Somehow, he imagined that was a common reaction to meeting the man. He wasn’t diminutive by any means, although that wasn’t an uncommon feeling for Wyatt, being 6’6’’. No, Wick was physically substantial, but chose to fade into the background. If you looked at him, you would see the man so many feared, but he did his level best to be as unobtrusive and unobserved as possible, until he didn’t.

Wyatt had only spoken to him a handful of times that week, and each time Wick had said very little. However, he had caught glimpses of the man throughout the complex, observing, mapping the layout. It was his eyes that told you everything you needed to know. They were intensely focused and expressive, and when they were fixed on you it seemed the man could see right through to your soul.

The shooting range was the one time Wick had allowed himself to be observed, and Wyatt had leapt at the chance. The precision and concentration he had seen were incredible. Wyatt had seen many people shoot, many of them highly experienced professionals. None of them had looked as natural firing a gun as Wick. It was a tool, and an extension of his own form. He was obviously born to do it.

Wyatt knew then this was him. The only man for the job.

A moment later, Wick arrived in the lounge. 6:59 pm. The lounge was a large room in the complex, low lit and filled with small café-like tables. Low jazz played from concealed speakers around the room, and vines had been cultivated to grow up the walls, which were rough-hewn stone. At the moment, it was occupied by a few diners, and Wyatt, at a table near the back. Wick immediately registered him as he entered, and strode towards him.

The man was wearing slacks, with a button up and leather jacket. He had shaved, Wyatt noticed, as Wick slid into the seat opposite him.

“Mr. Amherst,” he greeted Wyatt deliberately. His dark eyes glinted in the lamplight.

His heart gave a couple hard thumps, irrationally. Wick inspired a sense of alertness in everyone he encountered, he guessed.

“Wyatt, please,” he replied, making sure to keep his gaze level and calm, like one would do staring down a jaguar.

“Wyatt,” Wick tested, rolling the syllables off his tongue. He nodded, “Okay. John, then. What is it you want from me, Wyatt?”

“I’m looking for protection. For myself, and my operation.”

 “And?” John asked in his husky voice, furrowing his brows. “I’m more of a liability to you than security. The High Table apparently knows little about your ‘operation’, but they’re looking for me. So, what is it you really want?”

John leaned forward, across the table as he interrogated him. Wyatt felt his pulse beating against his ribs again, but didn’t back down.

Wyatt nodded, “I want to demolish the High Table. You are the only person to ever kill a council member. That, and your track record is frankly unbelievable. I need your help.”

“What are you offering?” Slow, calculating. Focused.

Wyatt shrugged, “I can offer you a lot, fiscally speaking. 12, 13 million. Coins. But besides that, your opportunity to return to your life. The council will never, ever let you go. It would show weakness, and weakness would plant cracks in the foundation that wouldn’t heal.” Now, Wyatt’s voice rose slightly, touched with a viciousness.

“Instead, I propose you and I bring them crumbling down ourselves.”

John Wick rested back in his chair. Wyatt could practically hear the gears turning.

All of a sudden, the boogeyman extended his left hand across the table, looking at him intently. Wyatt noticed the absence of the ring finger, but matched his gaze, and took his hand. They shook.

“I’ll work for you,” Wick said, still grasping his hand, his gravelly voice low enough that Wyatt had to lean in to hear. “But after this, I’m _out_.” The last part was barely audible, likely muttered just for the man himself, but Wyatt still nodded. He gripped John’s hand in response.

“One last job,” he said seriously, to this dangerous man he hardly knew, a sardonic smile upturning the corners of his lips. Unexpectedly, John exhaled a huff of air and released his hand, amused at Wyatt’s comment, his dark eyes crinkling slightly.

“Right,” John agreed wryly; his expression warmed. _He looks kind of nice when he smiles,_ whispered something treacherous in Wyatt’s brain. He gave himself an internal shake, and just then the waiter swooped in, right on time. He was holding two dishes of filet mignon, with sides of roasted, spiced potatoes and a small salad.

John glanced at him; he seemed pleased. “I hope you like steak,” Wyatt said, with a grin. The waiter brought out a bottle of wine next, ’62 Richebourg Domaine Leroy, a pinot noir valued at $8,109. The kind of wine you break out when closing a deal that will either make or break your entire future. The waiter poured two glasses, and left the bottle.

 

Dinner lasted about half an hour. John didn’t say much, except to politely compliment the food and drink, but it was comfortable. At 7:32 pm, Wyatt’s cell buzzed in his pocket, and he unhappily excused himself, citing business.

“Good night, John,” he bid the man farewell apologetically, and left. John stayed for ten minutes after, finishing his glass and blending into the background. Soon he became aware that someone was eyeing him from another table. John couldn’t make him in the dim light, but as the man got up and approached, he recognized “Aurelio. What are you doing out of the shop?”

John wore the hint of a smile. The mechanic sat down across from him, his face cracking into a grin.

“Jonathan,” he said with equal parts snark and cheerfulness. “Drinking alone, are we?”

“In peace, until you showed up,” John was happy to see Aurelio alive and safe. “How do you know this place?”

“What, the spa? Been comin’ here for a while. No place quite like it.”

John sat forward. “You oppose the High Table?” he asked, curious.

“What? No. I’ve got no beef with the High and Mighty. That’s the owner’s personal thing. My business couldn’t run without the Table and their rules. They’re what separates us from the animals, you know,” Aurelio raised his eyebrows jokingly as he parroted the phrase. “All you have to do to stick around is not go blabbing.”

John nodded. “So… how’ve you been?” he asked.

“Nowhere near as newsworthy as you, recently. Hey, this is some fancy juice,” he said, noticing the wine bottle. John gestured for him to help himself, and a waiter appeared next to them with a glass.

“Hey, thanks,” Aurelio handed the man a $20 and poured himself a generous amount of the pinot. John kept his face neutral, didn’t flinch when the mechanic swallowed it like hard booze. Instead, John nodded, his eyes downcast.

“It’s been a rough month.” He allowed, polishing off his own glass and staring into the bottom of it, through the stem.

Aurelio nodded sympathetically, his mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t oppose the Table, but what they did to you was… unpleasant. Kicking you while you're down and all that.”

John nodded jerkily, “Yeah.” He agreed, bitter.

The man drained the rest of his wine and clapped him on the shoulder gently. “I gotta get back to my girl. Any time you want to get drunk and commiserate, come find me.” With that, he wandered back to his table, leaving John staring into an empty glass. A couple of moments later, he stood, and slipped away to his room.

 

When he arrived back, he shrugged off his jacket and sat down on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes. The dog opened an eye and thumped his tail a couple times in welcome. John leaned back until he was half lying on the covers, his mind analyzing the evening. _Taking down the High Table…_ with a man he hardly knew, or knew anything about.

It had been an impulse decision. But it also felt like the logical conclusion. He had always taken out everything that stood in the way of his goals, and right now his goal was staying alive. The High Table was simply another insurmountable obstacle. _An unstoppable force meets an immovable object._ a small, rare smile graced John’s lips as he stroked his dog’s back absently.

Something about Amherst’s-  _Wyatt’s_ simple determination made an irrational spark of hope flare in his chest. Hope that he might someday get out of this. Leave it behind him forever. And if that wasn’t enough to sustain him, there was always the irreconcilable flaming pit of rage in his belly to get him through the job. Sometimes, he felt like Hercules, completing impossible task after task, beaten and bruised, only to find yet another labour awaiting him.

As he thought this, John shifted and stretched – and froze. When he’d moved, he’d heard the unmistakable crinkle of paper. He swung his knees onto the bed, and smoothed his hands under the sheets until his fingers brushed the piece of paper under his pillow. He withdrew it and unfolded the typed note, staring at words that read simply _‘Prepare yourself, Mr. Wick. We're coming’_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh! Twist! I really love this chapter. Writing it was a lot of fun, the franchise is so good. I'm starting to get an idea of where I want the plot to go too, which is exciting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have done so much googling today. I'm exhausted. Hope y'all like it

John didn’t panic upon finding the note. Instead, he thought it through. Anyone could have planted it within the hour he had been out of the room – he would have to talk to Wyatt about what the cameras likely hidden around the spa had caught. The note renewed his paranoia, but he’d been expecting a threat, so it wasn’t a surprise.

If there was truly going to be an attempt on his life that night, he knew wouldn’t have been given a warning. Despite this logic, when his head touched the pillow his mind was racing, his ears pricking at every possible sound, so sleep was deemed impossible.

Instead, he put on sweatpants and slipped down to the gym, his soft grunts mingled with thuds filled the air as he attacked a training dummy. After a few hours of combat practice, he felt another presence on the mat. He turned, breathing heavily, strands of hair hanging in his face, to see Wyatt.

Someone must have told him John was training late, he guessed. The man was wearing slippers, grey pyjama pants and a black tee that stretched across his chest, but he didn’t look groggy, like he’d just woken up. It appeared he had already been awake.

“Working late?” Wyatt asked, voicing John’s thoughts. He strode over and handed the spa owner the note, tucked in his pocket in case it disappeared from his room. Wyatt squinted to read it – John wondered if he needed contacts – and frowned.

“It was under my pillow,” John informed him, leaning in, his voice hoarse with tiredness.

Wyatt’s expression was preoccupied, and he responded, “I’ll check the security footage.” He glanced at his digital watch. The display read 3:27 am.

He looked back up at John, who noticed the shadows under Wyatt’s eyes, “Would you like me to change your room?”

John shook his head. “No. Thanks. It’s fine for tonight,” he answered shortly. Wyatt nodded.

“We’ll meet in my office tomorrow to discuss. Goodnight, John.”

He departed from the gym, accompanied by the muffled, echoing sounds of John returning his attention to the boxing dummy.

 

At 7:00 am, John had managed an hour and a half of sleep, having returned to his room during the night. He dressed in his suit, wanting the sense of professionalism that made him untouchable. Plus, he had the feeling he’d be working again, soon. As he was straightening his cuffs, the knock came at the door. He answered the door to Leroy, who examined him discreetly.

“Mr. Amherst is in his office. I will bring you there,” he said politely. Since John had first met the man, he had shaved his beard and trimmed his hair, and shrewd blue eyes looked out of a much younger face. John nodded and followed him, his dress shoes initially falling muffled against the bamboo floor, then clicking on the tile below.

They arrived at a nice but nondescript wooden door, which opened into a sizeable, well-lit office. There was a large desk, behind which was Wyatt Amherst, who greeted him and invited him to sit. Leroy exited silently, closing the door.

John sat in the only chair in front of the desk, and waited for Wyatt to begin. The man across from him repositioned the desktop to his right so that John could see the screen. He pressed a button on the keyboard, and split-screen footage of the hallway last night played, sped up, from 6:55 pm, when John left his room.

As it played, two other people entered their rooms, but nothing interesting occurred until 7:22 pm, when a gloved hand reached up and covered the camera on the lower half of the screen with black tape. The upper camera caught the figure’s arm reaching blindly around a corner, and then nothing but an empty hallway until 7:24 pm, when it too went dark.

Wyatt paused it then. “There’s nothing after that.”

John looked into the screen, then up at Wyatt, “They knew where your cameras were,” he noted, his expression neutral.

Wyatt nodded, “Yeah. My security staff all know the locations of the cameras, but any guest looking could have spotted them.” He straightened, “We can move you to another room, and install more cameras where they can’t be accessed.”

John looked at him, “We have other matters to discuss,” he said, his voice calm.

“About the High Table,” Wyatt agreed, lifting his head. John intentionally glanced at the door; his implication obvious.

“The room is sound-proofed,” Wyatt assured him, “And my team screens for bugs every day.”

John nodded for him to continue, apparently satisfied. Wyatt opened a file on his desktop; blueprints, for an enormous mansion.

“This is the Table’s New York location. They don’t stay here, but they hold meetings, sometimes parties. It was a bitch getting these plans, but it’ll be worth it.” He tapped a key to turn it into a touchscreen, then pinched to enlarge a door at the back. He pointed to it.

“The servants’ entrance. It won’t be heavily guarded, but servers are all required to carry photo IDs with barcodes. That shouldn’t be a problem if my contact can get assigned there.”

John interrupted his explanation, forehead lined with his permanent expression of concern, “Do you know everyone who sits at the High Table?”

 “Yes,” Wyatt said. He started ticking off his fingers, “Benito Alvarez is Colombian, he’s the head of a major gang operation that stretches across South America and over the border. Ashley Maputo, Mozambique. Smuggles everything from people to elephant tusks,” the list went on, concluding with “Brunetta Di Falco took Santonio’s place, and the twelfth is Paul Godeaux. I can provide you with all our information on them at a later date.”

John thanked him. Nine men and three women, altogether. He had noted an infinitesimal tightness in Wyatt’s face as he’d said the last name, and knew immediately that was the personal connection.

“Wyatt,” he said, his tone low and firm, intense. “Why are you doing this, really?”

Wyatt grimaced and opened his mouth to reply, when a knock came at the door. He hesitated, then called, “Come in.”

Leroy entered, accompanied by a tall Asian woman in a suit. “Sir, this guest says she saw the individual who entered Mr. Wick’s room.”

The woman walked over and leaned on the desk, a friendly grin on her face. “Hey, Wyatt!”

He smiled back, fond. “Hey, Elizabeth.” John rose from his chair and extended his hand to her. Elizabeth’s attention immediately re-focused on him.

“John Wick.” She took his hand, her face suddenly serious, “Good to meet you.”

“You too,” he nodded awkwardly to her, his voice slightly strained.

“So, Elizabeth, you saw something last night?” Wyatt prompted, interested.

She dropped John’s hand, “Oh! Yes. I was leaving my room to meet a contact, and I saw someone walking into his room. She was petite, probably 5’5’’, very pretty. She didn’t look like the usual clientele, and I had seen it was a man staying there, but I just figured someone hired her for… a service.”

John turned his head to look at her askance, surprised. Wyatt struggled to hide a smile. “Anything else you noticed?” he asked, amusement colouring his voice.

Elizabeth shrugged. “She was wearing black leggings and a black sweater. Gloves. Brown hair, dainty features.”

John suddenly spoke up. “Did she move particularly- gracefully?” he asked, looking at Elizabeth sharply.

She tilted her head, meeting his piercing gaze. “Now that you mention it, she did. Like a dancer, kind of.”

Something obviously registered within John and he turned to Wyatt, who looked back at him. “Elizabeth, thank you. Come by the lounge later and we’ll catch up.”

She smiled at him, cast another curious look at John, and left with Leroy.

As soon as the door closed Wyatt asked. “What is it?”

“A dancer,” John told him cryptically, got up and left. Suddenly alone, Wyatt stared at the door in confusion.

 

John entered his room, his thoughts racing, to find a key card beside another note on the bed, this one innocently informing him of his new room number. John spent a minute gathering his possessions, called his dog, and headed to the new room. It was the first one at the spa he’d seen with a key slot, allowing it to be locked. He inserted the card, heard a _click_ , and slid open the door.

Behind it was a larger, nicer room with a full kitchen, dining room, and living room. A separate door led to the bedroom. The dog immediately jumped onto the large leather couch, which sat in front of a coffee table and flat screen tv. There was a large mirror installed above it, which John walked over and looked into, reflecting.

 _A petite girl. A dancer._ But why? As he contemplated, he slumped onto the couch next to his dog, who licked his hand. John suddenly realized he was starving. There was a room service menu on the coffee table.

A couple minutes later, he was paying a waiter with the coins the Bowery King’s men had previously fetched from his account, at his request. He sat down to eat the gourmet omelette and bacon he had ordered, when he heard a piteous whine, and glanced down to see his dog begging at his feet.

In the end, he ate about half of the food he had bought. The other half went down the eager gullet of his hungry dog, who he had managed to limit, thus far, to kibble. Another battle lost.

 

Three days later, he had seen little of Wyatt. He could only guess the man was avoiding the conversation about his motives. However, John _had_ seen Leroy, installing security cameras in the middle of the night. Some noise had alerted him, and he’d poked his head out into the hall to see Wyatt’s assistant unscrewing the light fixture.

Leroy had paused, and nodded politely. “John.”

“Leroy.” He’d headed back to bed.

He’d also become acquainted with a security guard, Tom, who showed up twice a day to walk his dog. John was reluctant, but the dog needed it and it was dangerously stupid for him to make outings, so he acquiesced. The dog was happier now that he was getting exercise, but, it seemed, missed him on their walks.

Or at least, that’s what Tom assured him. Maybe wishful thinking.

Currently it was 10:30 pm, and he was sitting at the bar, taking up the offer of getting a drink with Aurelio. They’d been talking for a few minutes when John brought it up.

“How’s the Mustang coming along?”

Aurelio made a face. “What did I tell you? Christmas, 2030.” John raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, okay. She’s nearly done, just putting the final touches on the body work,” he shook his head. “You’re lucky I have faith in you, John Wick. If it were anyone else, with what you’ve been up to? I would’ve assumed I was never gonna have the chance to collect on the bill, and sold it off for scrap.”

“Uh huh.”

They conversed through three more glasses of vodka, at which point both parties hauled themselves off to bed. John unlocked his door, finding the dog snoozing on the leather couch as usual, when suddenly a realization hit him. He stared at the mirror; more specifically the edges of the mirror, of which there were none. Because it had been built into the wall.

He closed the door and turned all the lights off in the room until it was pitch black. Then, holding up his phone’s flashlight, he peered into the mirror. Behind it, he could see the faint outline of a hidden room. Blood rushed to his ears. He was being watched.

That night, as he lay restless in bed, he considered the building’s layout from the mental map he had built scouting the spa, and visualized what he’d assumed was a broom closet door, that stood directly opposite to his current room. That had to be it.

In the dark, he clenched his fists. Tomorrow. Time to get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens....  
> as you might have guessed, we'll see some action in the next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A traitor is revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen folks, he's an amazing hitman and very intimidating, but when he's not killing, this poor man is not suave. However I do love a flair for the dramatic, and John Wick definitely has that.  
> I don't know if this needs a warning, but this chapter gets a bit violent

John woke the next morning at 6:00 am, filled with grim purpose. He didn’t plan to immediately confront Amherst – first he needed to know why, and how his instincts had been so wrong.

As luck would have it, Leroy knocked on his door that morning, asking him down to Amherst’s office for another meeting. John looked at Leroy sideways for a moment, then gave a slight nod. He took his time, brewed a pot of coffee and fed his dog, before making his own way downstairs to see Amherst.

He knocked twice, his expression carefully neutral, and entered when Amherst called him in. “John. Good morning.” He was sitting behind his desk, signing papers. Wyatt’s hair was rumpled, curls sticking up everywhere and bags under his eyes. John filed this information away.

He took the chair in front of the desk, his head slightly bent and eyes glancing up to meet Amherst’s gravely. “You’ve been away,” he spoke flatly, testing to gauge a reaction.

“Business.” Wyatt shrugged apologetically, but there was an edge to his voice that spoke of stress. John nodded; his discerning gaze remained fixed on the man.

“What did you want to discuss?” he asked, a little haltingly, working to keep suspicion out of his voice.

“Right.” Wyatt reached into his desk and pulled out an invitation, handing it over. The paper was black, and embossed in silver it simply read ‘ _You are invited to attend an event. December 6 th, at the High Table.’ _and at the bottom, _‘destroy this.’_

John held the invite, considering it, then Amherst.

Wyatt confirmed, “A month from now we’ll gear up, dress as servers, enter the party and kill every last member on the High Table. At each of their parties, they all give a toast from the balcony. We’ll need to get up there through the mansion, and kill them and their guards.”

“How do you plan to escape?”

“My contact will have a car waiting for us. All we need to do is make it to the garage,” now Wyatt retrieved a physical copy of the mansion's blueprints, pointing to it. “Here.”

“That’s all.” John stated dryly. Wyatt smiled.

“That’s all.”

“I usually work alone,” John informed him, his gaze steady. Nothing about Amherst gave the impression he was a traitor. His eyes met John’s easily, and he seemed earnest. But John had known some excellent liars.

“Too bad.” Wyatt responded, final. It was true. John hadn’t taken anyone on a hit since he was first starting out. The other person was an unknowable variable, interfering with John’s single-minded approach. Especially when their motives were unclear.

Amherst rubbed a hand over his hair, obvious exhaustion showing in his face, then muttered “Fuck it.” and reached into his desk. He retrieved a bottle of scotch and two glasses, pouring them.

John looked at the man, his eyebrows raised. It was, after all, 9:00 am.

“You don’t have to drink it,” Wyatt told him. John took the glass.

He badly wanted to ask _why,_ why the surveillance, why Amherst had vanished for the weekend and why he’d come back looking so shaken. He suppressed his curiosity and drank the scotch. He’d know soon enough.

 

John spent most of the day in the gym, releasing stress and loosening his muscles for what would come later.  At 7:00 pm he returned to his room, earlier than usual. That should give him some time unobserved. John prepared methodically, showering and slicking his hair back. He dressed in work clothes; tailored bulletproof suit, along with all the lethal accessories.

Restraints in the form of zap straps came with him. Not the most elegant, but supremely functional. Suited up, he locked his dog in the room and stepped out, efficient and deadly.

He walked down the hallway parallel to his room and found the door he’d visualized. Fortunately, it had an old-fashioned key lock and the hinges were on the opposite side of the door. John knelt and slid his key card in between the door and its frame, jimmying it against the lock until he felt it retract. He slipped inside a small, dark observation room, which held little but a desk and the pane of mirrored glass that looked directly into his room.

John examine his surroundings, the locked desk and single chair, before positioning himself in the corner towards the side the door would open. He was utterly still, invisible in the darkness. Lying in wait.

 

Dmitri Kuznetsov came around the corner, checked the empty hallway and unlocked the door to the cramped room, shutting and locking it behind him. He rolled his neck and prepared himself to spend more countless, boring hours in the dark, observing a man doing absolutely fuck-all by himself. Before the surveillance began, he had to check in with his handler, and he removed the burner phone from his locked desk and dialed.

“Director. _Da,_ it is Dmitri.” He spoke in Russian, his tone deferential, yet smug. “They have begun planning the attack on the Table. The 6th of November. I now have visual on Wick’s room, and ‘Amherst’ has been successfully bugged as well. They suspect nothing,”

His voice was oozing superiority. _John Wick._ ‘Baba Yaga’, he thought mockingly. The moniker was appropriate. Much like a fairy tale, the stories of the assassin far exaggerated the dull reality. “I will continue to observe, so we can plan the finale. It will be spectacular, _da_. Thirteen birds, one stone.”

Another second and he hung up, putting his feet up on the desk and preparing for a long evening. Unexpectedly, he heard something drop behind him, metallic, and roll towards him. He turned and looked down to see a single bullet resting by his foot, and slowly looked up, paling, into the dangerous eyes of John Wick.

“ **Привет** , ‘Leroy’.”

 

Dmitri jumped out of his chair and went for his gun, his face wild with fear, but John was on him in an instant, seizing his elbow and snapping it back. He cried out as John gripped his shoulders and brought him gut-first into his knee with a grunt. Dmitri stumbled back and took something from his pocket, dropping into a fighting stance as John advanced.

There was no room to pull a weapon without it potentially breaking bad for himself, so John prepared for more hand-to-hand.

The first punch he dodged, ducking to the right, but the second one hit, and John felt the heavy impact of brass knuckles breaking his skin. He grabbed Dmitri’s arm and they wrestled for a second, both men lacking the leverage to throw a good punch. Then John yanked him sideways and off balance, grabbing the man’s head and bringing it down hard on the corner of the metal desk. Then several more times after that.

Satisfied Dmitri was unconscious, John secured his wrists, feet, and throat to the leg of the desk with zap straps, taking his gun and knuckles and frisking him for other weapons. The straps wouldn’t be enough to cause strangulation, but it should make things… unpleasant.

He shut the door behind him, borrowing a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign off a nearby door hook and placing it on the handle. John descended rapidly down the stairs, making his way to Amherst’s office. He knocked, twice. No response. As he turned back towards the stairs, he heard the _ding_ of the elevator, and turned to see Wyatt stepping off of it, looking worn out.

“John?” he asked, startled by the sight of blood on his face.

“Follow me,” John said, and walked away quickly, making Wyatt rush to catch up and keep pace. They strode rapidly in silence to the second floor, where John led him to the door.

Wyatt looked at him, “John, this is a broom closet,” he stated quizzically.

John swung open the door and motioned him in with a gesture to see the observation room and ‘Leroy’ unconscious and bound on the floor. He closed the door behind them.

A moment of silence, then, “What is this.” Wyatt spoke flatly, processing.

John ignored the question, “Did you know?” he asked forcefully, hair hanging in his face.

“Know what, exactly?” Wyatt asked, looking at him.

John gestured brusquely to the mirror that looked out into his room. Wyatt did a double take and shook his head, confused. John removed his phone from his pocket, and pressed play on a recording he’d made. Leroy’s words played back, in Russian. Wyatt didn’t recognize much besides the language and his and John’s names, but still turned to stare at the unconscious man.

“He was sent by a Russian cabal. They know me.” John explained curtly. Wyatt noted the vague slump to his shoulders.

“He was watching you?” Wyatt asked, finding his voice.

“Both of us. They have a plan, for when I attack the High Table. **тринадцать птиц, один камень** ,” he translated. “Thirteen birds, one stone.”

Wyatt digested this, and crouched beside Leroy. “What’s his real name?”

“Dmitri.”

Wyatt nodded and slapped his face, hard. “Dmitri.” His voice was cold. “Wake up.”

No response. Wyatt backhanded him. This time, the man groaned, attempting to shield his face. His eyes flew open when he realized his hands were restrained, and panic set in when his breaths wouldn’t come easily. Dmitri attempted to struggle against the zap straps, but each movement cut into his throat.

Wyatt hit him again. “Stop moving. You will answer my questions. Every time you refuse, or you _lie,_ I’ll tighten the strap around your neck. If you find you’re unable to tell the truth, you’ll soon find you’re also unable to breathe. Understand?” Wyatt’s tone was humourless, his face a few inches from Dmitri’s.

The man glared at him, but glanced up at John, who was lurking in the background like a bad omen. Dmitri’s expression changed and he jerked his head up and down, instantly regretting it when the ligature made him cough. “Yes, _sir.”_

“Good. Who do you work for?”

“Russians,” he spat.

Wyatt shook his head. “Watch your tone,” he admonished. “ _Which_ Russians?”

Dmitri jerked his head at John. “ _He_ can tell you,” he said venomously, leering. “Isn’t that right, _Jardani?”_

John remained silent, his gaze burning into the man on the floor. Wyatt grabbed Dmitri’s jaw and pulled it forward, letting him feel the pressure. “I want you to tell me,” he said calmly.

Dmitri choked, and Wyatt released him a second later. “Fine, then,” he hissed. _“ **Танцующие Волки**_. The Dancing Wolves. A criminal cell dealing in blackmail and threats. We have influence over every major government across the world.” The last part was accompanied by a smug smile.

Wyatt looked back at John, who nodded once in assent, his eyes locked on Dmitri.

“Why did they send you to spy?” Wyatt continued.

The man stared back at him mutely, his eyes burning with reluctant rage and uncertainty. A few seconds passed in silence, until Wyatt said, “Have it your way,” reached behind Dmitri and tugged the zap strap a few notches tighter.

“Okay! Okay.” Dmitri gagged, the ligature pressing into his trachea. “The Wolves have operatives in every large operation serving people in the industry. It was luck that you were interested in him,” his gaze flickered briefly to John again. “We could keep an eye on both of you, and your plan to attack the High Table.” His lip curled.

“What do the Dancing Wolves care about us and the Table?”

Again, Dmitri hesitated, and again Wyatt pulled slowly at the plastic tab, constricting the strap further.

“Stop!” he cried in fear, involuntary tears leaking down his face. “The Director… the favour _he_ invoked,” Dmitri said, referring to John, “The Table made her suffer for helping him.” he dropped his chin as much as he was able, squeezing his eyes closed briefly to try and stop crying. “She’ll see them all punished. Destroyed. And him too.”

“What are they planning?” Wyatt spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

Dmitri snarled, spit dribbling down his face along with tears, then said, “On the night you plan to infiltrate. They’ll plant explosives and blow the mansion.” He looked at John again, defeated and bitter. “Why couldn’t you have just died like you were supposed to?”

Wyatt stood. “Thank you, Dmitri,” he said politely. He rose and made to leave, then changed his mind, violently yanking Dmitri’s head forward by the hair as the man gurgled, and slamming it back into the table leg, knocking him out.

He straightened and faced John, his breaths weighted with anger. John matched his gaze, his expression unreadable. Wyatt spoke, his words falsely casual. “Seems we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! Gotcha. Amherst is cool, y'all. I had fun writing the fight scene, things are getting a bit intense. We're starting to see a different side to Wyatt now, and I'm excited to explore it.  
> "He took the chair in front of the desk, his head slightly bent and eyes glancing up to meet Amherst’s gravely." - in case this wasn't clear, John is looking up at Wyatt through his eyelashes here. An intimidation tactic, obviously.  
> Привет: Hello


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit... steamy ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's face it, the reason the John Wick movies do so well is regardless of their gender or sexuality, people are incredibly horny to watch Keanu Reeves just fuckn murder people. It's valid and I get it.

John Wick’s breath came heavy as he squinted into the foggy chamber. He and Wyatt had needed a place to confer that would be guaranteed free of bugs, and the spa owner had come up with the sauna. The humidity would render listening devices useless, and anyone trying to listen in on a conversation would be easily noticeable.

After Wyatt had knocked Dmitri unconscious, they cut the zap straps from around his neck and limbs. Wyatt had found some real restraints and a gag, and they left him in the dark room in case he had some later use. John could read his anger at the betrayal, coming off of him in waves. He had no idea how long Wyatt had known ‘Leroy’, but it was obviously enough to piss him off. 

If nothing else, John was familiar with that feeling.

The minor cuts on his cheek from the brass knuckles were inconsequential, and he’d forgotten about them entirely until Wyatt advised him to wash off the blood, so as not to draw attention. John had stabbed people in a crowded subway and gone unnoticed, but he complied anyway.

Wyatt had given John another room, and mentioned he'd have his men feed and water Dmitri. John didn’t really care either way. That night in his new bed, he’d been forced to take down the various mirrors that hung around the room, unable to escape the feeling of being watched.

The next day, Wyatt had met him at his door, and they made their way to the sauna. In the antechamber, they stripped down to towels.

John reluctantly stuffed his suit into one of the lockers, after Wyatt assured him that stealing was a none-issue in his establishment. His tattoos were on full display, and Wyatt caught himself staring, neglected Latin classes suddenly coming back to him as his eyes traced the words across John’s back.

They entered the empty sauna through a large wooden door, Wyatt leading them to a bench at the far end of the spacious, tiled room. A small waterfall beside them streamed into a dish of hot coals and evaporated, creating the steam that obscured the room.

Both men were leaning forward, their heads bowed together.

“You know them?” Wyatt asked. “These- Russians?”

“Yes.” He confirmed shortly, low voice flaring with anger. “I do.”

“What will happen if they seize power from the Table?”

John turned his head to look at him, slowly. “Their organization train recruits ruthlessly. The weak will not survive. Traitors, _enemies-_ will not be allowed to survive.”

Wyatt tilted his head, perceptive. “You were a recruit?” he asked.

John stared at him for a long moment, then bowed his head haltingly.

“Then what do we do?” Wyatt said, frustration seeping into his words.

“Let them destroy each other,” came the response.

 

The scarred man whistled cheerfully as he traversed the long passage into the concealed spa, ‘The Girl from Ipanema’ bouncing off the round walls. He opened the door on the other side with a step in the right place, and strode into a large chamber filled with dangerous people relaxing in robes as they were pampered.

“Nice place they’ve got here!” he exclaimed, exaggeratedly impressed, to the two hulking men accompanying him. “Shall we take a tour?”

They wandered briefly through the facility, before ducking quickly behind a staircase as lo and behold, just the man he wanted to talk to! Accompanied by a second man he knew as the spa owner.

“What luck! Gentlemen, God is smiling down on us today,” he announced to his guards, before commencing to follow his target at a safe distance. He grinned as they were led to a sauna. “I hope you two are up for some R&R,” he proclaimed, knowing eyes looking ahead. “Because it’s time for revenge and retribution.”

 

The door to the sauna opened, clearing some of the vapour. John lifted his head, his entire body tensing as a silhouette appeared in the steam, flanked by two others. The Bowery King stepped dramatically forward, dressed in an expensive suit; his arms stretched wide.

“Jonathan!” he cried, false enthusiasm booming through the room. “You didn’t tell us you were going on a spa retreat.”

John stood up in his towel, quickly analyzing the situation. He stepped to the side, subtly angling left. The King and his men turned with him, all parties on guard.

“I got word the High Table was going to make you an offer,” he spoke, voice low and stilted.

The King gave him a Cheshire grin. “Your word was right! I _did_ get an offer,” he said, his tone congratulatory. “And since you betrayed me, and ABANDONED me,” his voice crescendoed, then dropped. “I figured I might just take them up on it.”

“I’m not beholden to anyone,” came John’s response, after a pause.

The Bowery King nodded, understanding. “You’ve certainly proven that, Mr. Wick!” he agreed. “But you know how it goes. Consequences, baby,” he crooned, and his men moved in on Wick.

John attacked first, pulling a knife out of nowhere and flinging it into the shoulder of the musclebound giant on the right, who yelled in pain and fell back to yank it out. The second guard advanced, grabbing Wick by the arms and lifting him in preparation to fling him against the wall. Instead, John clasped the man’s neck with both hands and slammed his forehead into his nose with a _crunch_. He wrapped his legs around the man's waist, bringing them both down and rolling on top.

The mercenary attempted to punch him from the ground, but his position gave him no real power and John easily avoided it. He sent an elbow into the man’s throat, then his sternum, snarling. A punch to the back of the head sent him flying across the tiles, and the man he’d stabbed pulled a gun from his coat, having wrenched the knife from his shoulder.

John flipped to his feet just in time to get a hand on the pistol, yanking it up as it fired, bullets bouncing off the tiles. He kneed the man in the groin and punched him hard in the face when he went to double over, sending him to the tile. He spun to see grunt #2 approaching, bleeding from the nose and drawing his own sidearm. John kicked straight up and sent the gun flying out of his hand, but the man grabbed his foot and swung him into a bench.

Wick rose again, grimacing and falling back to the left for a moment. The man pursued him, and John vaulted up off his shoulders, swinging his legs around the man’s neck and bringing him down in a triangle choke. Using brute force, the man shoved John off of him, so he grabbed the giant’s ponytail, dragging his head up and plunging his face into the dish of hot coals from which the steam rose. A sizzle filled the air as John held his head down, baring his teeth. The man let out a horrific scream, jerked furiously, then went limp, dropping from John’s grip.

Without looking, he scooped up the dead man’s handgun from the floor and shot the other approaching attacker twice in the head. John noticed Amherst and the Bowery King had disappeared in the fighting, and he raised his gun, eyes straining to see through the steam. He turned a corner and saw them seated on a bench, the King holding a gun to Wyatt’s head. Wyatt had obviously inflicted some damage – the King had the beginnings of a black eye, one of his scars was reopened, and he was no longer smiling.

“So, John Wick,” he spoke, his voice echoing. “Since you’re not ‘beholden to anyone’, you won’t care if I shoot your ally here, right?”

John took a few hesitant steps closer, damp hair plastered to his face. He looked from the King to Wyatt, meeting his eyes, his gaze darting purposely down and to the left. His finger tightened on the trigger, and Wyatt immediately hit the deck as the gun fired. The Bowery King dropped his gun and howled in pain, clutching his empty hand, bleeding from a fresh bullet hole.

When he looked up, John Wick filled his vision, gun aimed at his head. The King grimaced tightly, the bravado gone from his face and replaced with grim acceptance. “Be seeing you, John.”

John tilted his head, “Be seeing you, _baby_.” A final shot rang through the sauna, and the Bowery King ruled no more.

 

Wyatt called his cleaning crew to dispose of the mess left in the steam room. He and John were seated in his office, freshly searched for bugs, this time unsupervised by two-faced Russians. Drinks were poured, and the two men clinked glasses silently.

Wyatt was the first to speak. “Do you think the Bowery King informed the Table of your whereabouts?”

John considered the ice in his glass. “I don’t know. We should assume he did.”

Wyatt nodded solemnly, then something occurred to him. “Who was the girl?”

John looked up at him, forehead creased.

“That planted the note,” Wyatt clarified. “Was she Russian, or one of the King’s men, or the Table?”

“Russian.” John responded; his voice tired, but certain.

“How do you know?”

“She was a dancer,” John said again, as if that should make it obvious.

“You mentioned that before,” Wyatt said, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “What does it mean?”

John shifted, leaning forward slightly. “The head of Танцующие Волки, the Director. She trains assassins, informants, spies,” he said. “And ballet dancers.”

Wyatt stared at him for a moment, then took a sip of his drink. “Okay.” His face carefully blank, he glanced up and casually asked, “Which were you?”

John was in the process of bringing his glass up to his lips when Amherst asked the innocent question, and a chuckle escaped him, his hair falling over his forehead as he ducked to hide a smile.

Wyatt’s pupils dilated a little, and he decided making John Wick laugh would be a secondary goal, after the destruction of a massive, high-powered criminal conglomerate.

John set his scotch on the table, serious again. “It’s time we talked.” His tone was firm. Wyatt set down his glass as well.

“About?” Wyatt willed down any feelings of nervousness. It was hard not to be apprehensive, being interrogated by a man who had recently barbequed someone’s face.

“Why do you want to destroy the Table?” John’s stare bored into the man across from him, and he spoke emphatically; he needed this answered.

Wyatt tossed back the last of his scotch, grimaced and exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. John’s expression was unwavering.

Wyatt opened his desk, removing a picture in a frame. He stood it up carefully, facing towards John. Within the frame was a photograph of Wyatt at roughly 20, holding an infant in his arms. John studied the picture carefully.

“My sister,” provided Wyatt tightly, his expression tinged with pain. “I grew up in France, Grenoble. My father was Lucien Godeaux, he dealt in arms trafficking, and held a seat at the High Table. My brother, always, _always_ wanted to be just like him.” His voice shook with anger, and he stared down at his desk.

“One day, Paul got tired of waiting to become our father. The High Table knew he was smarter, more ruthless than Lucien, so they sent him an invitation. Military-grade explosives. When my mother and sister were leaving town on a trip, he planted them in our family home, and blew the whole fucking thing up. Our father was asleep, he died instantly. But Paul didn’t know Maxine was also at the house, because she’d been feeling sick and didn’t want to come to Paris.”

John’s throat tightened a little, but he kept his eyes steady. Wyatt looked up at him, and John recognized the helpless rage in his eyes.

“My 13 year old sister died of her injuries in a hospital bed, because my brother couldn’t be bothered to check if there was anyone else at home. My father was a bastard, I don’t care that he’s gone, but my brother didn’t even come to our sister’s fucking funeral. Paul inherited our father’s seat, and since then I’ve been waiting to burn everything down around him.” Wyatt finished, leveling his gaze at John.

“You asked why I want to see them destroyed. There’s your answer.” Wyatt carefully took the photograph and placed it back in his desk.

John Wick looked at him for a long moment, and nodded fractionally. “Okay.”

 

They both took the rest of the day to recuperate from various events, John returning to his new room. Later that night, he was lying in bed thinking about Wyatt Amherst, and what he’d learned. He’d looked online, and found a news article corroborating his story. There was a picture of Wyatt’s teenage sister, Maxine, being wheeled to an ambulance, covered in burns.

Wyatt had impressed him with his interrogation of Dmitri. He had obviously meant business then, and hearing the story about his sister… a loved one dying in a hospital bed, when there was nothing you could do to prevent it. That reminded John too much of his own circumstances, and what had brought him there.

John Wick rolled over in bed, onto his front. He gripped the pillow. If it hadn’t been cancer that killed his wife, if someone specifically had caused her death – John’s stomach tensed in fury just considering it. In a way he envied Amherst. He had someone to blame, a careless, power-hungry sibling. As Helen was dying, he’d searched desperately for someone, _somewhere_ , who could be at fault. The doctors, for not catching it sooner, her family, for carrying the mutated genes, himself. In the end, there was nothing he could do but watch her die.

Suddenly John desperately needed to see her, and he rushed to unlock his phone and watch the video again. _“What are you doing, John?”_  

 _“_ _Looking at you.”_ his breath caught as he stared at her, listened to her voice. _“Come here.”_ He’d watched the video dozens of times in the last month. It still hurt so fucking bad, he wanted to scream and scream until he had no voice.

When Iosef Tarasov had stolen his car, and _killed his fucking dog_ , his last gift from Helen… he'd been enraged, and relieved. Finally, someone to hunt down and kill, someone to take out all of his grief, his powerlessness on. He thought of Wyatt’s voice trembling in anger as he talked about his brother, and the people who had helped him. He thought of how the High Table had hunted him relentlessly, turned friends against him.

John let out a breath. He didn’t work with others, but just this once… they would bring the Table to its knees.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is my favourite chapter so far. As soon as they showed John was adopted by a Russians that trained combat and ballet, I was stuck with the image of him as a dancer.  
> Also: it's a really secure towel.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyatt gets to know John a little better. Plus, guns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the cops pretty much don't exist in the movies, I'm not going to bother with them now. I guess what I'm saying is fuck the police.

Three days later, he and Wyatt had altered their plan. They would let the Russians continue to believe they were planning to attack the Table on the 6th, so the Танцующие Волки operatives would go ahead with planting the explosives. Meanwhile, they would infiltrate the Танцующие Волки, and find the Director.

John told Wyatt that she would insist on giving the order herself to blow the mansion, but she wouldn’t risk actually being exposed to danger. Therefore, when there were no gunshots at the party and it was obvious John Wick wasn’t showing up, they could still force the Director to pull the trigger, taking care of the High Table. Then they would take care of her.

It had been nine days since he'd arrived at the spa. John wouldn’t admit it, but he was beginning to go stir-crazy. The spa was large, but remaining inside and underground for days on end was wearing on him, and he was constantly at the gym to try and ward off the boredom. Thankfully, Wyatt noticed.

He knocked on John’s door the next morning. He answered in boxers and a tee shirt, obviously having just woken up. Sitting at his heel was the dog, the silver pit bull who was so freakishly well-behaved.

“Good morning,” Wyatt said. “Want to go out?”

They took one of the many tunnels leading out of the spa, which let out into a subway station a few blocks away. Before they left, Wyatt disguised him in a sleek black parka with a collar, jeans, and a red toque with a pom-pom. When Wyatt handed the assassin the hat, John took it delicately and looked questioningly at him. He shrugged.

“It’s cold out.” He offered. John pulled on the toque.

They went above ground, John’s dog trotting beside him. There was a car waiting for them in a parking lot nearby, the windows tinted. Wyatt got in the driver’s side and John opened the back door for the pit bull to jump in, before sitting shotgun. They drove out of town, up to a state park. John didn’t say anything during the ride, just stared out the window and checked the rear view.

 

At the park, Wyatt wasn’t sure if he should stay or wander off to let John be alone. So far, the man had just thrown the ball for his dog, who would deposit it directly back in his hand and patiently wait for the next throw. The park was beautiful, the beginnings of frost settled on the grass. Large trees rose up around the clearing they were in, red and gold foliage still clinging to some of the branches.

As Wyatt gazed around at the natural beauty, John suddenly spoke. “I’ve come here before.”

Wyatt turned his head to study the man, who had continued to throw for his dog. “Yeah?”

John paused in the game of fetch, taking the slobbery ball and considering it. “With my wife. Camping.”

Wyatt nodded. He knew that John’s wife had died some months previous, knew the vague details around Iosef Tarasov’s stupid cruelty and Santino D’Angelo’s marker. It was pretty much all his spa clients could talk about, and he’d obviously been interested. John saw the motion peripherally, still with his back to Wyatt. “What was her name?”

“Helen.” John gave a quarter turn, so he was somewhat facing the man behind him.

Wyatt wasn’t totally sure how to proceed. It was obvious that John wanted to open up. It seemed he hadn’t had many friends outside of business, nor had he been given proper space to mourn the loss of Helen. Wyatt wondered what John had been like retired, when he still had his wife. He couldn’t really imagine the man had been vivacious, but… happier. Content.

And that had all been ripped away. Wyatt felt sick on his behalf.

“May I see her?”

John paused for a second, and Wyatt worried he’d said the wrong thing, but then he nodded. He took out his phone, walked forward, and handed it over. On the screen was a picture of the two of them at a beach. The woman, Helen, was smiling into the camera, evidently taking the photo. Behind her, John had his face buried in her hair, a small smile on his face. Wyatt’s heart clenched.

Helen was a beautiful woman, her eyes shining out of the photograph. “She looks incredible,” he told John honestly, handing the phone back. “You were lucky.”

John stared down at the screen. “I was,” he agreed, bittersweet.

They spent another hour at the park, Wyatt asking occasional questions about Helen while John distracted himself with the dog. He wasn’t asking out of pity – he really was curious about the woman who had captured the heart of the boogeyman, and made him settle down. John wasn’t annoyed. Instead, he appreciated it. It felt good, if painful, to talk about her to someone that cared.

Wyatt managed to ask some personal questions about John, too. Had he had a dog as a kid (no), how old was he when he went out on his first hit (18), what his favourite book was (The Old Man and the Sea),

“Where are you going to go when this is all over?”

John stopped to look at him. Wyatt wondered for a second whether he actually thought he’d ever really be out or not.

“Santino D’Angelo destroyed my house. Almost everything I had left of her.” He spoke slowly, gritting his teeth a little in past anger.

Wyatt winced. “You’re welcome to stay at the spa as long as you want.” He offered.

John considered him. “Thanks.”

 

They were driving back into the city, when John noticed a car tailing them, a few lengths behind. He directed Wyatt into a parking garage. They both got out of the car as the second driver parked nearby. The man exited from the driver’s side, taking a few steps in front of his car.

“Hey, John. Nice hat,” the man ignored Wyatt and spoke directly to him, determined.

“Alfonso.” John’s expression was resigned. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sorry,” Alfonso replied, grimacing apologetically. “It’s a lot of money John, and I have people I need to pay.”

“Just walk away.” John said. “Please.” He added, already positioning himself to run.

In response, Alfonso drew a short assault rifle from his back, and three other men got out of the BMW, each armed.

John dove, rolling behind another vehicle. Bullets peppered the air where he’d been standing, setting off car alarms. He tore off the toque, drew his own weapon and hazarded a glance to his left. Wyatt was crouched behind a white van holding a Glock, leaning from cover to see the gunmen. John made the universal symbol for _stay down_ , and began moving quickly behind vehicles at a crouch.

He returned fire in the spaces between cars. Alfonso and his gang pursued him, shots echoing through the garage. They kept track of John’s path through glimpses, until he seemingly vanished. The mercenaries slowly closed in on a pick-up truck he’d last been behind.

“Come on, John!” Alfonso called. “What kind of life is this, always running?” One of his men approached the cab of the truck and ripped the tarp off, finding nothing. John shot him twice from his position under the car next to it, slid out and kept moving. One down, three to go.

Another man was moving in on Wyatt, the two exchanging fire from behind other vehicles, Wyatt drawing him away from the car where John’s dog was still lying. A bullet whistled by his ear, and Wyatt managed to get off a shot in response that hit the man in the shoulder. He stumbled back, and another two bullets to the chest finished him off.

Meanwhile, Alfonso and his remaining henchman were still locked in a firefight with John. They had him pinned down behind a sedan, and were flanking him. Wyatt fired at Alfonso, nicking him with a second shot. The man automatically turned, and John slid over the back windshield, throwing Alfonso to the concrete and stomping on his wrist. John grabbed the rifle as Alfonso recoiled, shooting him in the head, then the goon behind him.

John was breathing hard, for once unhurt. He turned his head to see Wyatt coming up behind him. The taller man put a light hand on his shoulder. “We should get out of here,” he said with a touch of urgency. They left the car parked where it was, got the dog and walked out. They made it back to the subway station, taking the tunnel to the spa.

They arrived back ten minutes later. Before he left for his room, John laid a hand on Wyatt’s forearm, meeting his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low and sincere. Wyatt’s eyes followed him as he walked up the stairs, dog at his side.

 

John Wick sighed as he sat down on the couch in his apartment, his dog jumping up beside him. He stroked the pit bull’s silky-soft ears as he thought about Alfonso’s words. Killing the High Table wouldn’t erase his open contract, and taking out every mercenary in the world before they got to him was not a very practical option.

Contracts had an expiration date of one decade if they weren’t renewed, but in his years in the field John had never seen one actually expire. Usually they were fulfilled, or if there were no takers, the price was upped until _someone_ would do it. That someone had often been John himself.

He could probably outlast the contract, if he kept on the move, but Alfonso was right; he didn’t want to live like that. John also didn’t want to die. That fact had surprised him, throughout all of the fucking bullshit visited on him since he lost Helen.

He still wanted a normal life. To honour her memory, prove that all of her support to bring him into the light of day hadn’t been wasted, but also for himself. Sometimes he felt guilty for even wanting to live after everything he’d done, after the love of his life was gone, but still it was true.

Today in the park, when Wyatt had been asking about his wife, about him, he remembered what it was like to forge a real human connection. It felt good. John had noticed himself loosening up, allowing his focus to be interrupted. He wanted that. He just wasn’t sure how to get there.

 

The next morning, John woke up in bed and knew instantly something was wrong. His throat hurt, his head felt heavy and swollen, and his limbs ached without good reason. He stood up unsteadily, staggering to the bathroom. In the mirror, his face was flushed and his hair was stuck to his skin with sweat.

He splashed some cold water on his face, and the rapid change of temperature made him dizzy. He left the bathroom and collapsed back in bed, his dog whining with concern and licking his face.

 

“Mr. Amherst,” one of the spa attendants got Wyatt’s attention as he sat at the bar, talking to a client. “We’ve just had complaints of a dog barking loudly in one of the rooms.”

Wyatt frowned. _A dog…?_ Few people came to the spa with pets. “What room?”

The attendant checked his clipboard. “215, sir.”

Wyatt’s eyes widened, he excused himself and took off at a jog.

 

As Wyatt traversed the stairs, he could indeed hear the deep, throaty barks of a dog, getting louder. He arrived at John’s door and knocked, to no response except the frantic pit bull. He withdrew a key card from his pocket and unlocked the door.

The dog immediately ran out of the bedroom to see Wyatt, then back in. He followed the pit bull, unsure about what he’d find. When he walked in, the first thing he saw was John Wick, lying on the bed, his dog whining beside him. He appeared to be asleep, but he was lying on top of the sheets, and his breaths were coming short and raspy. His cheeks and forehead were tinged an unhealthy pink, and the rest of his skin was paler than usual.

Wyatt stood a few feet from the bed, worried. “John?” he asked hesitantly. There was no response except a soft groaning sound. Wyatt took out his cellphone, and dialed his front desk, “Send up the doctor, please.”

In the next couple minutes, Wyatt was stuck staring at John, uncertain of what to do. A quiet whine had entered the man’s breaths, and his eyebrows were furrowed fitfully in his sleep. Carefully, Wyatt reached down and moved some of the damp hair from John’s eyes. When the back of his hand brushed his forehead, Wyatt nearly recoiled at the burning hot skin. “Shit.”

The doctor arrived soon after, knocking on the door frame. Wyatt went to let him in, and realized he’d left the door open. “Hey, Doc,” he greeted, his voice preoccupied, before leading him into John’s bedroom. The Chinese man took one look at the man on the bed, and turned to Wyatt.

“You do know I have a background as a trauma surgeon, right? I’m not a GP.”

“What?” Wyatt responded, frustrated and worried.

The doctor gestured to John, “He’s got the flu. Give him plenty of fluids and tell him not to go falling off of buildings. One of those may prove easier than the other.”

“I have what,” came John’s voice, raspier than normal. Wyatt turned to see that his eyes were open slightly, and he was looking up at the two men beside his bed. The dog had stopped whining, satisfied his owner wasn’t about to die. Doc leaned forward a bit to address John.

“The flu, Mr. Wick. Influenza.”

His head bowed, John slowly swung his legs off the bed into a sitting position, grimacing as the slight movement made the room spin. “I’m fine,” he grunted, rising to a standing position and swaying a little, his hair falling into a curtain around his face. Wyatt instinctively put his arm out to steady him, but John waved him away, stumbling to the kitchen.

Wyatt and the doctor looked at each other and followed him. John was trying to put on coffee, but was having trouble lifting the pot of water to fill the back of the machine. “Caffeine really isn’t good for you when you’re sick,” the doctor informed him. John took no notice of his words. The doctor looked at Wyatt.

“He’s not my responsibility,” the older man shrugged. “And if he does finally die, of the _flu_ , then he deserves it.” John heard this and flipped him off weakly. The doctor took his leave, and Wyatt followed him to the door. He paused, still slightly concerned.

“Call if you need anything,” he said awkwardly. John glanced back at him and nodded, and Wyatt shut the door.

 

Alone, John Wick sank onto the kitchen floor with a groan. His entire body hurt worse than when he’d been thrown off a building, and he was too weak to lift practically anything. He’d always hated being sick, hated that he couldn’t will his body to cooperate. Helen used to tease him about how he couldn’t deal with being looked after.

And then she had become sick, and John spent every moment in the hospital at her side, powerless. It was horrible to watch someone you loved get weaker, surrounded by other sick people who had little hope of ever recovering. Since then, he’d developed a phobia of hospitals and illness. And now he was sick.

John rested his head on his knees. He couldn’t be sick. Not while a 14 million dollar bounty hung over his head, not when he had the High Table and the Танцующие Волки on his back.

 Later that day, John dressed himself shakily in sweats and a tee shirt, and made his way down to the gym. He made it halfway through his warm-up and had to stop, muscles failing. John inhaled deeply and pushed through, sweating heavily. He squared up to a punching bag, swaying dangerously. _Right, left. Left, jab, right hook. Cross…_

John was suddenly sitting on the floor. His bangs hung in his face, and his breaths came painfully. Black spots danced in his vision. John slumped against the punching bag, lightheaded, and passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I know it's a trope but I couldn't resist. My head canon is that John has an extremely weak immune system. Everybody's gotta have a weakness, and I am absolutely certain John Wick would not handle the flu well.  
> I'm trying to balance the action with relationship-building, so hopefully it's working out alright. I really wanted to write a gunfight in a parking garage.


End file.
